Those Fatal Green Eyes
by AsphodelRegrets
Summary: In the summer between 5th and 6th year, Lily is all Severus can think of. Will our young canon-cross'd lovers spin out their story as told by the excellent JKR, or will some random fanfic author try to change their fate? Methinks we'll be hearing about those infamous green eyes again.
1. Chapter 1

The emotion radiates from a spot that seems to be deep within my sternum, in the middle of my chest.

Interesting . . . Not from the heart, as they say.

If I could cut it out with the kitchen knife, to stop this pain, I would.

All I can think about is Lily. They say that teenagers are too young to love deeply, that we confuse hormonal lust with actual feelings . . . I disagree most fervently. Ever since that awful day, the day of the Defense Against the Dark Arts exam, she has filled my every thought. If she isn't consciously on my mind, then her idea is clouding my every motivation, altering the color of my mind.

Lily Evans . . . Her dark-red halo of curls, her wry smile, her tip-turned nose with a slight smattering of freckles . . . her almond-shaped green eyes, glinting with ardent exctiement, or else narrowed in suspicious dislike . . .

Good Godric. I need to get a grip before I actually torture myself to death.

It takes all of my limited willpower to drag myself upright from my limp position on the floor. My bedroom floor, to be precise. The room is smallish, with a slanted ceiling to accomodate for the house's rather haphazard construction. The primary feature is a narrow bed against one wall, covered with a fading olive-green bedspread. A chest of drawers contains - unsurprisingly - clothing. My Hogwarts trunk stands expectantly underneath the uncurtained window. There is one small bookshelf, crammed to full capacity with an odd asortment of books. The selection ranges from a color-illustrated edition of _The Borrowers_ (which I nicked from the local children's library at age seven) to an ominous-looking black tome entitled _Most Potente Poisons_. Sartre's _Nausea_ is next to _Hogwarts: A History_, which is next to _Jinxes for Enemies_, which is next to _Macbeth_, which is next to a really nice limp-leather copy of _Wuthering Heights_ that Lily got me for my fourteenth birthday.

How cyclical. Feeling darkly amused at my own inability to keep promises, even to myself, I reach for the book and thumb absently through it. I've read it about a thousand times, hungrily seeking fresh meaning each time. The story of Heathcliff and Cathy jarred me more than Lily probably expected it to - I see a twisted version of myself in the sadistic Heathcliff, who went to all depths to exact his revenge on those surrounding the woman he loved. Lily is incomparable to Cathy though . . . Cathy had a narrow mind, of sound intelligence but unable to see what she truly wanted . . . What did Heathcliff ever see in her? She was a heartless tease who willingly married his worst enemy while secretly loving Heathcliff all the time.

Unnerved, I toss _Wuthering Heights_ onto the bed, where it lands with a deeply unsatisfactory _thwap_.

I turn to leave the room, but look back with hesitation. Everything is meticulously arranged, every surface bare, except for the pathetic-looking book on the bed. Neurotically, I replace it on the shelf. It's my own little OCD that I've come to accept, the need for neatness.

If organization is my compulsion, then Lily is my addiction.

The idea raises chills along my neck. I've never objectified her in my thoughts like this before, but it's quite true. I need two things: a completely organized environment, and Lily Evans. Not in a dirty way - I just need to see her, hear her voice, be in her presence.

I smirk humorlessly as a new thought comes to me. Quite possibly, I've been so depressed this summer because I have withdrawal. Lily withdrawal. It could be a new medical condition, previously unkown to wizardkind because of its rare and insidious nature.

I wander down the hall to the kitchen. Well, I suppose it is nominally known as the kitchen. Technically speaking, it is a corner of the house with a table and minimal food-preparation tools. A coffee percolator, a cheese grater, a paraffin-stove with two burners. A stack of plates. Some intimidating knives, an assortment of silverware, a pan, a kettle. I usually eat two regular meals a day, depending on how much money I have and - more importantly - my motivation level to stay alive. On average, I would describe my will-to-live as 'fairly thriving'. On good days, it stabilizes at 'positively keen' ; on my worst days, it plummets to 'borderline death-wish'. Today, I am 'vaugely motivated', which ranks somewhere above 'thriving' but below 'keen'. I haven't worked out the system to an exact science yet.

I am alone, as always. My mother died three winters ago - about two a half years, then. Losing her was a cruel blow. She was difficult and unaffectionate and disengaged, embittered by her estrangement from the Wizarding world, but she was my mother. I loved her. I miss her, a sort of constant twinge underneath everything else. Late some nights, I am overpowered by a sudden wave of grief that wracks my entire body and leaves me in floods of silent tears. Whatever she was, Eileen Prince tried.

My father typically stumbles home in the small hours of the morning, dead drunk. He had an ordinary Muggle dayjob at some sort of manufactoring place . . . in the past tense. He spiralled into a deep depression when my mother died. Despite having the familial instincts of a woodchipper, he seems to have truly loved her. All the more unpleasant for me - I am now the sole breadwinner, as they say. I don't know what he does with his days and I don't care. I don't really want to think about where he gets the money to fuel his vice.

I glance rather irritably at the wall clock. Almost noon - I ought to eat something, then I have to go to work. Yes, being the sole breadwinner means that I have a summer job at the Muggle bookstore. So demeaning. I cannot _wait_ to get back to Hogwarts, and then afterwards -

I sharply pull my mind away from that particular can of worms. Every time I think about what awaits me after my education, I get a leaden feeling in my abdomen that even I can't mistake for excited anticipation. Truly it is an honor - being recruited so young - but I still have doubts - no going back if - if _he_ is truly willing to give me the Dark Mark . . .

Somehow, I can't help picturing Lily's face in my imagination, or possibly my memory. Her green eyes swim with disappointment and frustration and sadness and something else . . . a tinge of fear, perhaps. For the second time today, I feel an unnatural chill. Anything that makes Lily Evans _fear_ me can't possibly be good - but -

Decisively, I shove the niggling doubts and fears to the back of my mind. I am quite a talented Occlumens, after all.

Only Lily could take a subject so passionately black-and-white, my elation at being asked to join the Death Eaters, and transform it into a muddy grey area.

_Enough!_ I need to clear my head. I decide to leave immediately for work. Clarice, who has the shift before mine, will certainly not object to an extra fifteen minutes of liberation.

The shop bell jingles lightly as I pull open the door. The appealing smell of printed paper greets me. Over the past several weeks, I have surprised myself by developing a certain fondness for the Muggle bookstore. It is certainly a more entertaining employment prospect than, say, the coffee shop. Here, I have my choice of Muggle books to read during shifts. I'm currently excavating my way through the arduous struggle that is _Anna Karenina_. Its sheer physical weight is daunting, but I'm being gradually rewarded with a bittersweet taste of pre-revolution Russia, its complexities and meaningless social norms. I believe that what Tolstoy has been trying to convey all along is that every restriction imposed by Society looks silly and heavy-handed from an outsider's perspective. Or perhaps I'm fooling myself, who can say.

Clarice, looking pleased to see me for the very first time, ducks gratefully out. It's a slow day - somehow, Tuesday always is - and I open _Anna Karenina_ to the page that I had marked with a piece of loose string.

_It was a wet day; it had been raining all the morning, and the invalids, with their parasols, had flocked into the arcades._

_Kitty was walking there with her mother and the Moscow colonel, smart and jaunty in his European coat, bought ready-made at Frankfort. They were walking on one side of the arcade, trying to avoid Levin, who was walking on the other side. Varenka, in her dark dress, in a black hat with a turndown brim, was walking up and down the whole length of the arcade with a blind Frenchwoman, and, every time she met Kitty, they exchanged friendly glances._

_"Mamma, couldn't I speak to her?" said Kitty, watching her unknown friend, and noticing that she was going up to the spring, and that they might come there together._

_"Oh, if you want to so much, I'll find out about her first and make her acquaintance myself," answered her mother. "What do you see in her out of the way? A companion, she must be. If you like, I'll make acquaintance with Madame Stahl; I used to know her belle-seur," added the princess, lifting her head haughtily._

_Kitty knew that the princess was offended that Madame Stahl had seemed to avoid making her acquaintance. Kitty did not insist._

_"How wonderfully sweet she is!" she said, gazing at Varenka just as she handed a glass to the Frenchwoman. "Look how natural and sweet it all is."_

That last line is bitterly ironic, if ever anything was. Good ol' Tolstoy.

I am pulled unwelcomely back to the present by the insistent jingling of the shop bell. I look up - and my carefully constructed world shatters around my sorry head.

Yes. My idol herself, in the flesh. Her shoulder-length hair blows in front of her face in a sudden breeze from outside - she hasn't seen me yet. I get the guilt-ridden urge to run very fast in any direction, or possibly hide under the counter, but it's too late. The door swings shut behind her. She came alone.

I feel like a potential serial killer for even thinking that last thought. Godric, I really hate myself sometimes.

There is a suspended moment in the silence before I decide what to do. The counter is positioned some distance from the door, partially blocked by a bright display of recent publications. My pulse speeds up. If I greet her now, I honestly have no idea how she'll react. On the other hand, if I pretend not to see and/or recognize her, then the awkwardness will increase tenfold when she comes to pay and realizes I've been ignoring her. What to do? - !

I respond to my primal instincts and hide behind my book.

My eyes are frozen midway down the verso, not taking in the text in front of my face. I'm painfully conscious of her every movement; my attention is dominated by her soft footfalls on the carpeted floor. Everything and nothing is wrong with me. My inner economy is melting down, and still I squint unseeingly at this book.

At some point, it occurs to me that I ought to switch my burning gaze to the recto. Just to add to the realistic impression that I'm actually reading.

After what feels like an eternity of Dante's seven levels but what is actually about fifteen minutes, Lily steps up to the counter. I don't respond immediately; my knuckes are actually whitening at the pressure I'm applying to this godforsaken book.

She clears her throat expectantly, a genuinely discreet sound. I've heard some truly irksome attention-attracting coughs in my life, and this is not one of them. I clap _Anna Karenina_ shut with unnecessary force and finally meet her leaf-green eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Lily gasps slightly as she recognizes me. Instantly, a rush of emotion clouds those eyes. Initial shock, then distrust, then faint loathing. Her thoughts are an open book for me. Her face is so expressive, I don't need to use Legilimency to see into her heart. Gryffindors generally wear theirs on their sodding sleeves. I do a quick mental check to ensure that my own expression is completely void of emotion.

"Oh! Severus."

My name is delicious from her mouth. I smirk slightly in spite of myself. Merlin, how I've missed her.

"Hello, Lily."

"Er, hello."

She is painfully confused as to how to interact with me. After all, I am quite officially her least favorite person on the planet as of last June. On the other hand, we were childhood best friends, and she is required to behave civilly in a bookstore regardless.

Wordlessly, she pushes a book across the counter. It's Austen's _Pride and Prejudice_. I scan it with the queer device that Muggles use to price things.

"Four pounds."

She reaches into her pocket for the money, looking at me very strangely. When she places the notes on the counter, her hand doesn't leave them.

"We should talk," she says abruptly.

My breath hitches slightly in surprised anticipation. "What do you mean?"

A quick flash of irritation passes over her face. "Dammit, Severus! Do you have to make this so hard for me all the time? I don't feel comfortable with the way we left things, and I . . . I'd prefer some closure."

My silly heart beats faster. I try to quash its vain hope with solid reasoning. Let's be honest, "closure" was the _last_ thing on Lily's mind in June. Wasn't smashing my heart enough? Why does she want "closure" now?

Oh, who am I fooling. I'm practically leaping at the chance to talk things through with her.

"Yes, okay," I agree.

She relaxes slightly and gives me the money. "Great. So, what time is your shift over?"

"Four thirty. The store closes early on Tuesdays, for unclear reasons."

She checks her wristwatch. "It's quarter-past now. Meet me at the park in twenty minutes?"

I hand her the book and receipt. "Okay." Wow, someone's feeling articulate today.

She smiles for the briefest moment, then is gone.

The rest of my shift drags by at an impossibly slow pace. I can't focus on _Anna Karenina_. This might be my chance to fix things with Lily. Godric, I would give anything to have her friendship back.

Oh no. No, no, no. Have I unwittingly turned into one of those bastards who deliberately befriends a girl in the hope of getting something from her? This cannot be happening to me.

I can't lead her on anymore . . . chances are that she actually has no idea of how I really feel. I need to just take the plunge and confess. Yes. The notion makes me feel like throwing up repeatedly and then maybe taking a long walk off a short pier, but I have to do it. I will _tell_ Lily that I like her as more than a friend and _ask_ her to be my girlfriend. Decisive action verbs for the win.

At last, my shift ends. I lock the door behind me. Cokeworth is a very small town, so I instantly knew which one Lily meant. It's the one where we met as children.

For the first time in a long while, I feel self-conscious about what I'm wearing. Dark jeans and a white Oxford shirt . . . I thought they looked okay when I got dressed this morning, but I really have no sense of what is "cool" and what isn't. Anyway, everything fits properly.

When I arrive at the park, Lily is already here. Her back is to me; she's sitting on the swingset, her feet touching the ground. I feel somehow stalkerish about coming up behind her, but there really isn't another option.

I draw level with her. She is truly beautiful, her hair glowing like a fiery gem in the sun. From this angle, I can't see her face. We stand silently for a moment, facing dead ahead. I can't help sneaking glances at her in my periphery. I sense that she is doing the same, and eventually, our eyes meet. She smiles rather awkwardly.

"Hey." Lily is the first to speak, of course.

My voice seems to have dried up. I cough experimentally. "Hey," I manage, slightly hoarse.

"Severus - "

"Lily, I - "

We speak in unison, then glance at each other in confusion. She giggles uncharacteristically, a definite sign of nervousness. Why should she be nervous?

"You first," I say encouragingly.

"No, you."

"Lily," I try again, "I'm really sorry. I can't even begin to justify myself at all. I've been metaphorically beating myself up all summer, thinking about what I said - what I did." The words tumble forth haltingly, fledgling apologies trying to fly. I haven't spoken this much to anyone in a week, at least. It feels good. "I was unforgivable, but I hope you'll forgive me." I can't bring myself to look at her.

Lily sighs, running a hand through her hair. "To be honest . . . I don't really want to hear it. I _think_ that you're being sincere, but they could just be empty words. Words - I hate words." She laughs, a small, bitter laugh. I just want to put my arms around her and tell her it's okay. More empty words. "So, no, I'm not ready to forgive you yet. It's not just because of you calling me - what you called me, either. You've been drifting away for ages, getting closer to that Dark Arts gang."

"I'm -"

"Sorry? Are you?" She looks me full in the face for the first time, her ice-green eyes piercing my soul painfully. "The thing is, we used to be friends - best friends. I _know_ you can be good . . . That you _are_ good. You've just lost sight of it." She seems to be talking more to herself than me, convincing herself of something. "So, I want to give you another chance. Don't tell me how sorry you are, show me."

"For the sake of what I used to be?" I ask caustically. I can't help myself. All this talk of objective "good" and "bad" is making me queasy.

Her eyes flash with determination. "For _your _sake, Severus! You didn't 'use to be' anything, you're just _you_."

I want this chance so badly, but not at the cost of my morals. "How do you know, Lily? How do you know not to believe the rumors you've doubtless heard about me?" I say softly. As much as I can't hurt her again, there is no way that I can add more lies to our relationship. Lily can have my friendship as I am, or not at all. If she tricks herself into believeing I'm someone that I'm not - someone like James "Bloody Hypocrite" Potter - then we'll both get even more hurt in the end.

"I just do," Lily asserts stubbornly. "Besides," her eyes soften, "I've missed you."

"Lily . . . You have no idea how much I've missed you."

She stands up and hugs me. I am wholly unprepared for the gesture, but I recover my wits quickly enough and gingerly return her embrace. She smells heavenly, of bluebells and cinnamon. Not that I'm weirdly sniffing her or anything. It's just a scent that I've grown used to over the years. How I have missed Lily and her unique scent.

When we break apart, she smiles radiantly at me. I've gone from hell to cloud nine in a few brief hours. The sensation is dizzying.

"Oh - gosh!" She looks down at her watch in a sudden panic. "I have to go. Mum's getting back from her business trip really soon." A wistful expression crosses her face, swift as a shadow. My heart goes out to her. Mr. Evans passed away of leukemia when we were thirteen, and Lily has been very protective of her mother and sister ever since. I know she worries about them both. As much as I sometimes consider Lily an untouchable 'golden girl', she has hardships like everyone else. Like me.

On a sudden impulse, I kiss her cheek. Instantly, her pale skin flushes pink.

"Sev! That was . . . very sweet of you. Quite unexpected." She smirks adorably. "See you around?"

"Yeah," I agree casually, trying not to let my elation show. Lily turns and walks quickly away, pausing to throw a quick glance over her shoulder. I can't keep a grin from stealing over my face. _That_ went better than expected.

I walk home. The familiar shapes of the increasingly dumpy houses near Spinner's End, usually slumped against each other in defeat, seem to lean happily into one another today. I just kissed the girl I love. All is right with the world. My will-to-live just soared to 'absolutely thrilled'.

My euphoric mood lasts until around three in the morning, when my father stumbles home in a heavy alcohol-induced stupor. Tonight, he doesn't even make it fully through the doorway before he passes out. I am forced to drag his pathetic whiskey-drowned self to his room.

Leaning against the doorframe, panting slightly from my exertion, I look down at Tobias Snape in disgust. He is really very ugly. I _loathe_ the fact that I can see many of my own features in him.

Back in my own room, I pull a small hand mirror from my top drawer and scrutinize myself brutally. Sallow skin, hooked nose, some mild acne, black hair that looks perpetually greasy no matter how many times I wash it. Ugliness. Lily might let her ugly Slytherin friend kiss her cheek, but I haven't a snowball's chance in hell of dating her. Which reminds me, I didn't make good on my self-promise to confess my love to her. Pathetic. I meticulously replace the accursed mirror in its drawer. I can't be bothered to change clothes after my little self-confidence-booster, so I just take off my shirt and fall asleep in my jeans.

The next morning, I wake up to find the room full of glaring sunlight and Lily sitting on the edge of my bed.


End file.
